April 2

She murders without taking a break from talking, not even a breath.

The flying ant is staggering across the table, slipping in and out of cracks on the surface, it’s that small. She sees it and picks up the salt holder. Before I can stop her, she stamps the salt holder down and savagely, swiftly, silently, smears it across the table, rubbing the flying ant over the wood it found so hard to walk on.

For a moment I think the tiny black tary stripe is all that is left of the ant and I can’t believe the squashing was that efficient. Then I see it’s top half, a black bogey, deathly still but recognisably half of an ant.

She continues talking as if nothing has happened. To her, nothing has. I am saddened that she could be that merciless.

What would people say if she was suddenly smashed and smeared out of existence? Bad Luck? Act of God? A mistake – she shouldn’t have been there in the first place? Nor should the ant.

This little story is the ant’s epitaph and my apology for not stopping my friend.